


put your hand to the task

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, D/s, Dystopia, Identity Issues, John is a weapon of the system, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Porn Watching, Safeword Use, Workplace Relationship, internalized domism, toxic domism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7973149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first morning of John's new job, his first assignment is to punish his employer. </p><p>(Or: In which John is hired to discipline Harold, and things get murky when John realizes that 1) Harold seems more capable than the people who give John orders and 2) John likes Harold.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your hand to the task

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Morin, Toft and especially Code16 for their input and support while I was making this. 
> 
> See end notes for elaboration on consent.

On the first morning of John's new job, his first assignment is to punish his employer.

Technically, Harold Finch isn't his employer: the board of directors for IFT is. But John was interviewed by Nathan Ingram, who was very emphatic about _not_ being John's boss, and Harold Finch himself, who sat in the corner glaring frostily at John.

"Your discretion will be vital," Ingram said, looking gravely at John. "Mr. Finch is the CTO of IFT, and having it out that we have a sub in this position... I don't have to spell it out, do I?"

John left the interview certain that Ingram wouldn't need to spell it out, that John would be the absolute last candidate they'd consider for the job. He got a phonecall notifying him he was hired the next day.

"Get on with it," Finch says, voice high and reedy. He's awkwardly bent over a desk, legs shaking slightly. There's something odd about the positioning in general, and John frowns.

The briefing he got included an extensive review of Finch's injuries. It also included a review of punishment tactics approved by the board: spanking, paddling, or flogging.

Spanking seems far too intimate for somebody whom John met all of twice. John's instincts have him choosing a paddle, broad and light. It was supplied by the board. The wood feels solid under his hand, good quality. Not something that would break if John used it properly.

The board did not supply a support rack, and if a spanking is too intimate, the idea of putting Finch over John's knee is unthinkable. Under the circumstances, it seems like the best thing to do is get on with the punishment.

"Twenty strokes," John says. It's on the low end of the range suggested by the board. "I'll call them out. You can make a sound or not, up to you." He moves beside Finch and delivers a fast stroke, not hard. Warming him up. "That's one."

Finch doesn't cry out, but his breaths go ragged, wetter as John calls out the numbers. John doesn't take pity. That wouldn't do either of them any good.

"Twenty," John says. He pauses, waits for Finch's response, and offers him a hand. "You can get up now."

Finch ignores John's hand, pushing himself upright with difficulty. Finch's face is blotchy. He's looking determinedly at the floor: he manages to make a bowed head look defiant.

John carries on with the usual punishment script. "Do you need me to get you anything? Hot water bottle, something to drink?"

"That won't be necessary," Finch says, still looking fixedly at the floor. He walks away without another word.

Well. It's not like John was expecting the guy to like him.

~~

It's not the worst first day John has had on a job, but it's up there in the top five. He might have caught a flu or something: his muscles ache far more than a five minute paddling session would warrant.

His other duties are to ensure Finch's well being. As Finch is still pretending John doesn't exist, John settles himself in a chair in Finch's office and pretends to read a book while covertly watching Finch.

There's not a lot to see. Finch spends long stretches of time bent over his keyboard in a way that can't be good for his back, gets up regularly to pace around the office and mutter to himself. John follows him to the kitchenette where Finch gets himself tea and water.

John still learns plenty about Finch: that he's good at covering pain but not perfect, and that he'll ignore pain completely rather than ask for help.

When John feels the urge to stretch his legs, that happens to coincide with Finch's water glass being near empty. John gets him a full one from the kitchenette, swapping it with the one Finch had on his desk. 

Finch brings the glass to his mouth absent-mindedly, then does a double take at realizing it's full. He goes still in his chair, and for a moment John thinks Finch will swivel around and throw the entire glass at him.

The moment passes. Finch drinks, sets the glass down, and returns to typing seamlessly.

~~

On the second day, John makes it to the office at eight o'clock sharp. Finch is there already, and he turns his chair to face John.

"I apologize for my behavior yesterday," Finch says. He sounds stiff and, to John's surprise, sincere. "I was inexcusably rude to you. You were only doing your job, after all."

John's at a loss. "It's fine," he says.

Finch holds his gaze for one second longer, then returns to his computer with an air of relief that John shares.

John has punished subs before, of course. Never ones who felt such obvious resentment towards him as Finch, but it figures Finch would hate having to be disciplined. For a sub to become a chief executive anything, he has to have a will of iron, and having a random dumb grunt chosen for him as his de-facto Dom would have to rankle.

Finch's stiff, armored hospitality extends to asking John, "Would you like to accompany me to lunch?"

John follows him to the cafeteria, where Finch spends five minutes hunting for a piece of roast chicken breast that meets his specifications. John piles his plate with whatever is closest to hand and watches Finch put together a nutritionally balanced meal.

"I prefer to read while I eat," Finch says once they're seated. "I hope you'll forgive me for being dull company."

Wordless, John whips out his own book and waves it at Harold.

He still watches Finch as they eat. Finch cuts everything into bite-sized pieces, perfectly even, before actually putting anything in his mouth, alternating food items in an order that seems random until John figures out the underlying pattern, which ensures that Finch's plate becomes evenly empty.

Finch returns his own tray, which not all employees do, and he thanks the kitchen workers when he does. John follows suit.

~~

Technically John is supposed to be Finch's bodyguard as well as his disciplinarian. He follows Finch into a meeting room. Finch startles but doesn't complain.

Not to John, at least. As soon as Ingram enters the room, Finch jerks a finger at John and asks, "Are we really letting him sit in for this?"

"I signed about a dozen NDAs," John says mildly.

Both Finch and Ingram ignore him. "Yes, we are." Ingram says, jostling Finch's shoulder. "Somebody needs to protect your virtue from me."

There is the tiniest tick of a response from Finch, smoothed down hastily. Ingram gives no sign that he noticed.

They smoothly slide into a heated discussion of technical matters way over John's head. Ingram drops the jovial, indulgent Dom pose once they're talking business, but while he doesn't soften his edges, neither does he pull rank over Finch. Finch, in return, gives as good as he gets - better, as far as John can tell: he seems to be winning.

Finally, Ingram leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Christ, okay, I give up. Have it your way." He's grinning, though, looking fairly delighted. "I'll go wrestle the board over this. Wish me luck."

Finch gives a reluctant smile back. "Good luck, Nathan."

Ingram spares a glance for John, then. "We're just wrapping up," he tells John, steely command thinly veiled with a hint of friendly suggestion. "Why don't you take a break?"

Finch doesn't seem like he minds, and anyway Ingram is his friend as well as - colleague? Employer? John's not honestly sure. At any rate, Ingram doesn't appear to be a risk.

John spends his spare ten minutes going to the first aid cabinet, where he finds a chair cushion. It's not a very good one, but he doesn't have time (or money) to go buy one and he doesn't think Finch would approve of him stealing one from the secretary pool.

Although come to think of it....

John ends up with a pillow borrowed from a very nice typist on the second floor, who was happy to lend John's poor, forgetful (and entirely fictional) sub her spare. "And make sure she drinks something!" she tells John as he departs.

John smiles at her, almost genuine. "Sure thing."

He hesitates and doesn't deposit the cushion directly on Finch's chair. He puts it in the chair he usually sits in, instead, and goes lean casually against the office wall, book in hand.

Finch, when he comes in, eyes John sharply. "There's no need to remain standing."

John shrugs. "I feel like it."

Finch doesn't answer. He takes the cushion and sits on it without further response. John tries not to feel too triumphant.

~~

On paper, John's working hours are eight till six. In practice, his contract tells him he needs to be with Finch every moment Finch is in the office, so at one AM John is slouching in his chair, watching Finch type.

Perhaps he made a noise, or perhaps Finch simply remembered his presence. Without looking away from the screen, Finch says, "Go home, Mr. Reese."

John still hasn't gotten around to getting an actual apartment. He's gotten a room at the YMCA, just a place to sleep, and frankly he'd rather do that where he is. Finch's office is warm, and the sound of typing is soothing. Even Finch's occasional mutterings are calming to John, proof that his charge is alive and well.

That said, John's not going to tell Finch he has no place better to be. He gets up and shrugs on his coat.

Finch's hands still on the keyboard, and he says, "I'll be heading out myself."

John's weighing whether he should tail Finch home or tell him outright that John will be accompanying him - Finch is likely to rankle at the latter, the former will put John in hot water if Finch finds out, and John is _not_ letting a sub go home unaccompanied at one AM - when Finch coughs and adds, "I'll appreciate it if you waited with me until the security detail comes to drive me home."

"Sure," John says, a little tension bleeding off him.

Finch moves awkwardly after a day spent in the chair. They spend the wait for the security detail in silence, and John might be entertaining a few ideas.

~~

"What are you doing?" Finch sounds, appalled.

John holds off answering until he's upright again. Then he says, "Yoga."

For a long moment, Finch just stares at him. Then he asks, "Why?"

John shrugs. "Sitting in one place all day's bad for me. I don't know how you stand it." It's nothing but the truth. John's back aches just looking at the way Finch sits, even disregarding Finch's injuries or the new, ergonomic chair that materialized mysteriously the day after John brought Harold a pillow to sit on.

Finch might not be too happy about listening to John, but he won't work against his own best interests if John offers them up and doesn't force Finch to swallow his pride to do it. John's hoping that would be enough for Finch to take John up on the unspoken offer of yoga lessons.

Either Finch didn't pick up said offer, though, or he isn't interested. He turns around and says, "I can manage, Mr. Reese."

"Never said you couldn't," John says, mostly to himself, and slides into another sun salutation.

~~

John didn't make guesses at to what got Finch disciplined on the first day of their acquaintance. If he had to, though, he'd have said that Finch probably didn't get disciplined often.

It's something of a surprise, therefore, two weeks in when Finch comes into the office, face pale and tight, and drops a sealed envelope in John's lap.

John knows what's inside even as he tears it open. The board doesn't say what Finch did that warrants the punishment, but the minimum number of paddle strokes has been raised to forty.

"Would you like to share your thoughts, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice is purest ice.

After consideration, John says, "Just wondering what the hell crawled up their asses." Harold's too intelligent and polite to get written up for simple back talk, and he's certainly not punished for tardiness or slacking off. Whatever he's being punished for, John's got a feeling Harold wasn't in the wrong there.

Finch's features shift minutely. His voice when he next speaks is rueful. "They don't like being proven wrong."

John looks at him with interest. Finch is doing that thing again, holding a perfectly respectable submissive pose and making it look defiant: and yet, John doesn't feel antagonized. "I bet," John murmurs, fascinated.

Then the paper rustles in his hands, and he almost startles.

Right. No time to get lost in thought. "We can do it any time today," John says. "Want to get it over with?"

"Might as well," Finch says. "Better than having to stop in the middle of something." He's lingering, though, eyeing his work station.

"I can remind you next time you're between assignments," John suggests. "That way if you have anything you need to focus on, you can do it now."

Finch sighs. "I assure you, pain will be considerably less of a distraction than knowing punishment is forthcoming," but he sits down to work anyway.

In the end, Finch gets carried away almost till the end of the day. The building is quiet by the time Finch jerks away from his code, a touch of defensiveness in his posture.

"I wasn't delaying," Finch says as John sets up the punishment rack he arranged for.

"Never said you were." John looks at the rack, adjusts its height. "Okay, try it."

Finch lies down with a slight mutter of, "Is this really necessary?"

"You're already going to have a hard time sitting tomorrow," John says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Might as well spare your back."

"I suppose you have a point." Finch settles briefly, then grimaces.

"Too high?" John says, hands at the adjustment mechanism already.

"It's all right," Finch says, but then John moves the rack a fraction of an inch lower, and something in Finch's face relaxes. "Oh. Yes, that's better."

"Thanks for letting me know." John gets the paddle, same one as last time. "Forty this time."

"I'd prefer to keep count myself," Finch says, then clears his throat. "If that's all right with you?"

"Fine," John says. His throat gets a little tight at that, he's not sure why. He wasn't expecting Finch to participate even that much.

For the first ten strokes, Harold's-- Finch's voice is precise, clipped. It starts wobbling shortly after that, but even as his voice cracks, he never loses count.

Finch says, "No, thank you," when John asks him if he needs anything.

John nods and sits back in his chair, rubbing his wrists. He's more tired than he thought he was.

Finch is just taking one last sweep over his work station before leaving when he pauses and looks at John. "Mr. Reese. May I ask a personal question?"

 _I just beat you hard enough to leave bruises,_ John doesn't say. "Sure."

"Why did you apply for this job?"

John can't place Finch's tone. Finch's expression is pure curiosity, but it feels a little too pure to be genuine.

Even so, he has no reason to lie. "It was in my skill set."

"So are a great many other positions," Finch says, voice still revealing nothing.

John shrugs. "It needs doing and I can do it." That it didn't involve shooting people was, admittedly, a perk. John was kind of tired of that side of his life.

"I was wondering because it seems an odd choice of profession for someone who seems as prone to top drop as you are."

John's eyes fly open. "I'm not--" He takes note of his sore muscles, the sudden, terrible, fatigue, and sags. "It won't be a problem."

"There's no reason it should be," Finch says. "Top drop is easily remedied. Provided proper care is taken."

It doesn't sound like Finch is suggesting to sit there and tell John that he is a good Dom and that Finch is grateful. Still, it's late and John is tired and willing to push his luck. "Let me teach you yoga tomorrow," he says.

Finch raises his eyebrows. "I'm hardly at top form."

It's not a no, so John gives him a sly smile. "It's just yoga, Finch. Little old ladies do it."

"Not the way you do," Finch mutters. The tops of his ears turn slightly, endearingly pink.

~~

The next morning, Finch arrives at the office with a foam mat, a change of clothes and a determined expression. John's eyebrows rise mildly at the sight.

He doesn't want to spook Finch, though, so he pretends to be engrossed in his book until ten AM. He usually gets some exercise around that time: he waits a bit longer for Finch to come out of his coding trance.

"I'll set the mats," John says. "Go get dressed."

Harold's office is more of a suite, containing the workspace, the kitchenette, and a little closed off space containing a shower and a cot. Finch hasn't slept there in the time John's worked for him, and John hopes this trend continues: the thin mattress can't be good for Harold's back.

Now Harold vanishes into that closed space, emerging a few moments later in track pants and a t-shirt.

It's not like John was expecting Finch to do yoga in a three piece suit, but Finch looks. Different.

It's the shoulders, John thinks: they're broader than they seem under those jackets, some real strength there, and Finch's waistcoats make him seem plumper than he is. It's a little bit like watching a fluffy cat get soaked, all the padding flattened so that the real shape is visible.

Without his tailored clothes, Harold Finch is just a guy, flesh and blood, bone and sinew. This shouldn't be coming as a surprise to John.

"Well?" Finch says stiffly, startling John out of his reverie.

"Right." John slips into warrior pose. "We'll start like this...."

A few minutes into the impromptu lesson, John asks Harold, "Are you okay with me correcting your form?" He reaches his hands closer, but doesn't touch until he gets Harold's jerky nod of assent.

Feeling Harold like this is even more jarring than seeing him. His skin is warm - of course it is, they've been exercising. When John gently pushes, Finch resists for the briefest moment before moving with him, and John breathes out.

It's been a while since John touched anyone he wasn't beating.

As the lesson progresses, John's careful corrections of Harold's form are met with less hesitation, to the point where Harold flows right along with his hands. "Great," John says, unthinking. "You've got it."

"Thank you for the assessment, Mr. Reese," Finch says dryly. The words don't hold any sting, though.

It makes John reckless enough that at the end of the lesson, he motions Harold to lie down on the floor, guiding him through a simple visualization. "Imagine yourself becoming very, very heavy." As John's speaks, his hands run down Harold's back, checking the tension in his muscles: they're bunching, as they're supposed to, but nothing feels like it's cramping, or out of place. "Now, you're becoming light again, starting from your toes, moving up your calves...."

At the end of the exercise, Harold's breathing evenly under John's hands, and John yields to temptation and holds his palms against some of the worse knots in Harold's muscles.

Harold's tensing under him, though. "Color?" John says.

There is a moment of silence, and then Harold says, "Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Reese," in such a clear tone of dismissal that John almost flinches away.

~~

That night John finds a sufficiently private shower stall at the Y and strokes himself to a workmanlike orgasm, thinking hardly of anything but skin, the texture of another body next to his, the faint scent of aftershave and clean sweat.

He considers it further lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It's been a while since he jerked off. He hasn't been in the mood for some time.

It's only natural, really. His job is forcing him into an intimate position with a sub who might not hate John's guts after all. It's not surprising that John's developing a connection.

As he falls asleep, John imagines the tactile silhouette of Finch's body next to his, a marked absence like an afterimage brought on by staring too long at a source of light.

~~

Two steps away from the conference room, John stops. He's not sure why: some instinct, the hair on his back rising.

Then the muffled shouting from the conference room becomes loud enough to hear consciously, and John sprints back inside, reaching for a weapon he doesn't carry anymore.

Inside, he comes to a halt at the sight of Finch and Ingram staring at one another like cats across a rooftop. Finch's face is pale. Ingram's is red.

"I thought you understood, Harold," Ingram finally says, voice low. "I really wish we could stop having this fight." He walks out without another word. Finch watches him go with a pinched, unhappy expression.

John spends the rest of that day waiting for a sealed white envelope which never comes. So does Finch, by the way his back tenses every time his computer chimes an incoming email. And yet, by the end of the day, no punishment comes. Not at four PM, when most administrators leave, or at six PM. John fetches himself dinner and watches Harold nibble a poptart listlessly.

At eight PM, the building has gone quiet, and Harold's hands still on his keyboard.

"It seems Nathan decided to be kind." Finch's voice drips bitter irony over the last word, but at last he exhales and relaxes. Then he turns his chair, facing John without their gazes quite meeting. "Would you mind administering punishment without higher guidance, Mr. Reese?"

The question shouldn't come as a surprise. This is John's job, after all: someone in Harold's position can hardly go to Public Enforcement. Even so, he takes a second too long to say, "Of course."

"I will leave the exact punishment to your discretion." Finch's voice goes thready with the words.

Wordlessly, John fetches and sets the rack. Fifteen strokes should do it. Finch doesn't have very high tolerance. "You'll keep count," he says, and Finch says, "Yes."

Finch calls out one strike, two, with a tightly controlled voice, and John abruptly says, "Yellow."

Even as he says it, he tenses up in expectation of backlash, waiting for Harold to coolly lift an eyebrow and ask again why John thought he was suited for his line of work.

But Harold is quiet for a minute, then ruefully says, "You have a point. Punishment hasn't worked for me once in fifty years. Expecting it to start now is a little silly, isn't it."

"You never know," John says, reflexively, helping Harold to his feet. The fact that Harold accepts his hand leaves him daring enough to add, "Need anything?"

The corner of Harold's mouth quirks. "I don't suppose you'd be up for another yoga lesson?"

And that's how John finds himself, not for the first time nor the last, demonstrating positions at nine in the evening.

"Would you like to accompany me home?" Harold says afterwards. His voice and his posture are stiff, but he's not backpaddling from the offer.

John considers it. Seeing where Harold sleeps, when it's not the little walled-off bed in the office, the place where he's private. Personal.

"I could wait for the security team," he offers.

Either Finch is grateful for the out John gives him, or he's not that into John seeing him home after all. He nods, leaves as soon as the security arrives.

~~

Going out is a bad idea, but John doesn't have better alternatives.

John's lonely. Finch is lonely, too: John can feel it rising off him in waves. It would be too easy to slip, give in to gravity and proximity, make their hard-won working relationship into a dysfunctional mess.

The bar is tolerable: the music low enough that John can hear himself think over it, no cigarette smoke obscuring the room. John lurks at a corner, ignoring his beer and assessing the subs.

He tries not to listen to the whimpers rising from behind him, where a sub is being disciplined. It sounds nothing at all like hitting Harold.

A sub in a slinky black babydoll mosies up to John. They make eye contact before casually attempting to grab John's glass.

John's reflexes are quick enough to save his glass. He shakes his head and takes a drink. There's only water in it, anyway.

The sub's shoulders hunch. "I'm just trying to be friendly," they mutter, looking John in the eye.

It's a scenario John knows. He could do what the sub wants from him. The sub's long hair is in a ponytail, which usually means they want people to grab it and pull. 

Behind John, the sub who was previously disciplined is sobbing, "Thank you, thank you," while their dom makes hushing sounds.

John gets up abruptly. He pushes his glass at the sub who approached him. "Keep it," he tells them, stalking out. 

"Fucking service top," the sub mutters, loudly enough that John can hear. John ignores them anyway.

On his way out, he gets a look at the pair that was sitting behind him. The sub is clinging to their dom, gazing up at her adoringly as she strokes their hair.

John walks out faster.

The last sub who looked at John with utter trust wound up dead while he was halfway across the world. Perhaps it would be best if John could train himself out of wanting any kind of sub at all.

~~

"I'm heading out," Harold says, fingers clattering decisively on his keyboard, shutting down his software as he always does at the end of the day.

Usually, though, that happens at six PM at the earliest; it's not even three yet. John blinks at him. "Anywhere special?"

To his surprise, the corner of Harold's mouth crooks up. "I'm treating myself," Harold informs him. "Would you care to join me?"

"I think I will," John says, rising to his feet, hiding a grin.

Harold takes them downtown, into a tailor's shop. "You can sit here." Harold gestures at a chair. John does, and watches as Harold erupts into fluent Italian, exchanging words with the owner of the shop.

John doesn't know much about clothes. He knows something about people, and he fancies he's even got some idea of who Harold is, by now: looking at him touch fabric samples with an appreciative hand, the quick dart of his eye over the sketches the tailor makes, John reads genuine pleasure.

It's not a hardship to watch, either.

Harold is decisive but not hasty. He knows what he likes, and he's thorough, nodding or shaking his head at what the tailor brings him. Finally, Harold steps into a fitting room, leaving John to sit alone in the store's main room.

When Harold steps out, he's clad in a brand new creation in subtle blues and purples. "It suits you," John says, before he can remember to watch his mouth.

Harold's mouth tilts with approval, though. "I agree." He pulls at his jacket's lapels, straightening them. "How about you, Mr. Reese? Care to take a fashion risk?"

John can't help it. He snorts. "How can I refuse?"

By the time John remembers he can't actually afford a new suit - certainly not one made by the tailor who dresses the CTO of IFT - he's already in the fitting room, the tailor fussing around him.

John comes out tugging at the collar, feeling confined. He hates ties; they feel like a point of vulnerability, which they are. He's not going to give anyone attacking him that kind of handhold.

"Oh," Harold says, and John's hand stills at the breathy sound of Harold's voice.

Perhaps he's imagined it. When John looks, Harold is all business, approaching John with a critical eye. "Hm, it's certainly an improvement," Harold says, looking him up and down. "Perhaps a touch longer on the hems. We'll take it," Harold tells the tailor. "You know where to send the bills.

"If you'll give me your address," Harold adds, to John, "I'll have the suit delivered there."

"Um," John says. This seems an awkward time to mention he's staying at the Y.

Harold's eyes narrow. "I suppose you could always pick them up at the office," he says.

~~

John should probably have anticipated the neat pile of forms waiting for him on Harold's desk. He picks them up, leafs through them. His "What's this?" is nearly rhetorical.

"Rental contracts," Harold says. "The topmost form is to apply for IFT on-campus housing: they're small, but not insufficient, and conveniently located. The others are within comfortable distance by public transportation."

The on-campus housing sounds good as far as John can tell. He could get a key practically by giving the signed form to the department administrator. The forms require his personal information, of course, but it's all been filled in already, the printed letters of John's name indistinguishable from the surrounding legalese. "Did you fill those in for me?"

"Your information is already in IFT's database," Harold says, slightly defensive. He fidgets with his monitor, angling it away from John.

Of course that only makes John want to see what he's hiding. He walks up behind Harold, who could have closed or minimized the window he was looking at.

But he didn't, so now John can see pictures of a beautiful, spacious loft. John's eyes flicker to the price tag below, and to the text specifying, _For Sale_.

"Thinking of moving yourself?" John says softly.

He doesn't think that's what Harold was doing, but Harold may appreciate the out.

Harold sighs, a touch of irritablity in it. "You know I wasn't." He turns to the monitor like a turtle retreating into his shell.

It makes John want to coax him out. "Are you trying to challenge me?" he says, certain that his smile is evident in his voice. "Some folks can be touchy about their dominance, you know."

For a moment, Harold is still. Then he says, "If you'd resented our financial disparity, I imagine I'd've seen some sign of it by now." He's not turning to face John, though, and John sees tension in the line of his shoulders.

"If you must," Harold says, so low John barely catches it, "you might think of it as tribute."

"Most subs don't give out seven figure tributes." John says the words unthinking, smiling; Harold is _interesting_.

He only catches the unfortunate implications when Harold finally turns around, eyes searing through John. "Most subs," Harold all but spits the words, "find kneeling orders of magnitude easier than affording Manhattan lofts, rather than vice versa." He gets out of his chair, limping away awkwardly.

Harold returns half an hour later holding two glasses of water. He puts one next to John before sitting down. His eyes narrow to the note John left on his desk. He picks it up.

It's the address of John's new lodging, in the IFT on-campus housing.

"Unit six," Harold says, after a long moment. "Those have a nice view. Spacious kitchen areas."

"I'm glad to hear that," John says. "I cook, sometimes."

Harold's hand trembles very slightly. "Do you." His voice, on the other hand, is completely neutral.

"You should come sometimes for dinner."

After a few moments, Harold says, "Perhaps I should." He swivels his chair to the screen. "Some time."

~~

There are six cafes within a five minute walking radius of the main IFT building. Finch loves the tea they serve in Rosemary, but frowns at their unrecycled to-go paper cups, so this morning John goes there with a travel mug before sprinting up the stairs to Finch's office.

He's daydreaming a little, wondering if Finch will make a face at the travel mug (which is calculatedly tacky, featuring a wolf howling on a clifftop) or simply not notice, drain the tea still half-asleep.

Even so, John hears voices coming from Finch's office from a few yards away. He slows down, trying to asses.

Ingram and Finch are in there, and they sound upset. Again.

John creeps up to the door, opens it a crack.

"I won't ask again," Ingram says. "This is your last chance, Harold."

"Just as well." Harold isn't loud, but he's intense. "I won't change my answer, Nathan. I haven't so far, and I never will."

Odd, hearing a multi-billionaire Dom's voice cracking like a middleschooler. "But if only you considered--"

"No." Finch sounds cold, implacable.

John retreats enough not to get hit by the door when Ingram storms out. He flattens against the wall to let Ingram pass. If Ingram notices him, there's no sign of this.

When John comes in, Harold's face is fixed on his screen. John puts the travel mug close to Harold's hand, in a place where Harold's unlikely to knock if off the table.

"Thank you," Harold says, still not looking away from the screen. His voice is steady; his hand trembles slightly when he picks up the mug.

"You're welcome." John settles himself in his usual position. They stay like that for a while, the office silent but for Harold's hands on the keys.

"I'm going to speak to the board today," Harold says, turning away from the monitor. "Perhaps you'd like to join me?"

Once he's gotten over his surprise, John says, "Of course." He has to admit, he's curious to see Finch interact with them. Maybe figure out why it is that gets Finch punished all the time.

Might just be a chronic inability to be subservient the way some Doms believe is their due. Having seen Harold with Ingram, John can certainly believe that.

~~

The board room is empty when they enter. "Please, sit," Harold tells John, gesturing at a chair.

John notes, "You're not sitting."

Harold's mouth twists. "Getting up each time a board member enters is tedious."

John weighs his options. If he remains standing, he might make Harold feel less alone. If he sits down, Harold will probably feel less conspicuous.

And there is the fact that Harold asked. John sits.

The board members trickle into the room. They nod at John and not at Harold, which is weird. John wonders if they know what John's job is, if they're mistaking him for someone in upper management. If their lack of recognition for Harold is a calculated insult, or an unintended one.

Ingram comes in last, with a man who takes position at the head of the table.

"Are we all ready?" the latter says. A general murmur of assent flows over the room. From the authority he's weilding, John places him as Gerald Keller, the head of the board.

Keller asks for department heads to state their piece: DeManne, Queen, Beatty, and Forster, whom John knows are heads of Finance, Human Resources, Operations and Maintenance, respectively.

Finally, Keller says, "What about R&D?"

Harold, who's been standing this entire time, shifts stiffly. "The progressions are much as they were in our meeting on Thursday." He gives a rundown of versions and dates. A few of them seem familiar, projects John has seen on Harold's desktop walking behind him.

"We discussed this," Keller says, all disappointed. "I thought we agreed that the projected timeline is unacceptably late?"

"As a matter of fact, we did not," Harold says. He stands more rigidly than he normally does, barely perceptible. "You told me it was unacceptably late, and I explained that given the features you requested, in particularly the ones added during the latest meeting--"

Keller cuts him off. "I'm not interested in hearing excuses. What do you need to have it ready by next week?"

"Barring an addition of manpower?" Harold says, "A time machine would be our best shot."

Keller stands up abruptly, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall behind it with a muted _thunk_. "You know, when I heard this company had a sub for a CTO, I figured you must be really special," Keller says. "I hope you realize that if it weren't for the special clause in your contract, we'd be showing you the door."

Harold's hands twitch minutely, like he wants to curl them into fists. John doesn't think anybody but him noticed. "You've made yourself very clear on that front, yes."

Keller drags his chair back into place and sits down. He spreads his hands. "I don't know what to say, Harold. Is it that you enjoy being punished? Why do we have to go through this every time?"

"Because," Harold says, with a barely audible tremble in his voice, "your timeline requests are unrealistic given the number of employees R&D has. I assure you everyone is doing their level best."

"Are you aware, Harold," Keller says, "that the IFT R&D department has more submissive employees than any other R&D department of a company this size? And fewer instances of punishment per employee?"

Harold doesn't blink. "That would explain our excellent employee retention rate."

"Or," Keller says, "it could explain why our employees are lacking in motivation. Slacking off. EloCorp employees work 20% more hours every month, and their time-to-market are 50% of hours."

"And their satisfied customers rate is a fraction of ours," Harold says.

Ingram clears his throat, and Harold quiets, looking at him. So does Keller. "Quality is how IFT got to be the company it is," Ingram says, voice soft. "I don't think giving that up is the answer."

Keller looks at Ingram. "Mr. Ingram, I have to note that you said the same thing every time R&D lagged behind schedule, and lately you've been sounding less and less convinced." Keller turns back to Harold. "There are also some schedule irregularities we've been noting. Harold's been staying at work late and attending meetings, but not progressing on any of his assigned tasks." Keller slides his gaze to Ingram again. "Perhaps the reasons for the delays are personal?"

Ingram doesn't move that John can see, but he somehow manages to project such contempt that the room feels ten degrees colder. "If you're insinuating anything, Keller, have the crops to come out and say so."

Keller lowers his head. "Just saying that perhaps Harold is stressed. Overtaxed. Perhaps a different position would be better suited to him."

"That's not up to debate," Ingram says briskly.

"In that case," Keller says, "he has a responsibility, and the company's image to uphold." Keller leans closer to Ingram again, looking him in the eye. "Are we going to go through the same song and dance again?"

As Ingram and Keller stare one another off, Harold is still standing. His hip must be excruciating by now. Harold's face betrays no sign of pain, and John doesn't say or do anything. He has no idea what he could do that wouldn't make the situation worse.

Finally Ingram sighs, irritated. "Assign the punishment you find reasonable." He stands up, letting his folder full of documents fall on the table. Glossy printed paper slides out of the folder; Ingram pays it no mind, stepping outside.

Keller surveys the room. "Anyone opposed?"

For a brief moment, John imagines standing up. Maybe they'd listen to his assessment of who Harold is, how futile more punishment would be.

Harold catches John's eye and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. John stays quiet.

Keller snags a clean sheet of paper, hides his writing with his free hand and stuffs it in an envelope, which he hands John. "Good luck," he tells John, smiling mirthlessly.

~~

Back in his office, Harold sinks slowly, laboriously into his chair. John bites his tongue on the offer of a massage.

Instead, he reaches into the envelope, fishing out the sheet of paper. If the pain in Harold's thigh doesn't pass, John is postponing this punishment and he doesn't care what Keller - or Ingram - have to say about this.

Then he sees the number, and opens his mouth. Before he can start yelling, though, the door slams open.

"Goddamnit, Harold." It's Ingram. There are bags under his eyes. "Would it kill you to play nice?"

Harold regards him coolly. "This _was_ me playing nice. Keller wants to throw everything we've made down the drain for short-term financial gain. Do you think I should let him?" He sounds incredulous.

Ingram winces. "Of course I don't. Look, people like Keller, you can't get all confrontational with them."

"You do." Harold offers the observation in a neutral voice.

"Yeah, but _you_ can't." Ingram sighs. "Just - say you're sorry. Maybe cry a little if you can, he'd like that."

This gets Harold to turn his chair and stare at Ingram. "We've known each other for over twenty years, Nathan. How many times have you seen me cry?"

Ingram has the decency to look shamefaced. "None, but maybe you could try?"

Harold gives him a long, frosty stare. "I can hardly do it on command."

"Maybe Olivia should teach you," Nathan mutters. "Look, but he's got a point. You _have_ slowed down recently, and I'm not talking about time spent on--" he glances at John, "certain projects. Maybe the stress really is getting to you."

"Really?" Sarcasm drips from every syllable out of Harold's mouth. "I can't imagine why I might possibly be feeling stressed."

Ingram looks at John again, eyes narrowing.

Harold rolls his eyes. "Mr. Reese is doing his _job_ , Nathan, and he's doing it responsibly and adequately. I was actually referring to the endless, pointless arguments you've seen fit to have with me lately."

Ingram smiles at him then, all boyish charm. "Oh, c'mon, Harold. Arguing is how we got our best work done."

"Not like this," Harold says with finality.

Before Ingram can answer, John interjects, "Actually, speaking about my job." He gives Ingram the envelope. "This is too much. I won't do it."

"Mr. Reese," Harold says, tone biting, and John holds up a hand.

"I have a responsibility," John says, voice carefully soft, "to this corporation and to Mr. Finch. I would be violating that responsibility by administering a punishment that I thought was beyond his ability to tolerate."

Ingram's eyebrows rise. "What, you're telling me Keller gave him enough to keep him out of work? Keller's an ass, but he's not that much of an ass."

John keeps a neutral expression as he says, "I believe it will pose a danger to his long term health, wellbeing, and functioning."

Because the thing is, being beaten hard enough to aggravate his existing injuries might well _not_ keep Harold from coming to work. Not until it was much too late. At this point, however, John has no confidence Ingram would appreciate that nuance.

Ingram makes an impatient noise. "Look. get started with it. Give him as much as you think he can take." Ingram's mouth curls without amusement. "He might surprise you."

"I'm in the room, Nathan," Finch says mildly.

Instead of answering, Ingram takes a seat. John darts a glance at Harold, who shrugs.

"I'll set up the rack," John murmurs.

He wonders, as he does, whether Ingram and Harold were ever involved. More than twenty years of acquaintance; a lot could happen in that time. Is Ingram jealous, resentful that John is the one to administer Harold's punishment?

Another, startling thought crawls in. _Is Harold?_

John firmly tells himself it doesn't matter and locks the rack into position, then beckons Harold to take his place.

As always, Harold keeps count. His voice is steady and uncracking through the first thirty hits, and Ingram looks smug; then, as John doesn't stop, increasingly concerned.

Eventually, at the fifty-fifth stroke (Harold sounds slightly hoarse calling the number), Ingram says, "How many did Keller order?"

John nods at the note that Ingram still holding. "See for yourself."

Ingram unfolds the note and pales. "This is outrageous. What the hell was Keller thinking?"

Harold doesn't call out the next strike, and John pauses.

In a voice tight with pain, Harold says, "You signed off on this, Nathan."

"But I didn't know...." Ingram's voice dies out like a snuffed candle.

A quiet moment passes. John coughs discreetly, and says, "Fifty six."

"Yes, carry on-- Ah!" The shout is unlike Harold. Probably having to speak mid-punishment ruined whatever space he was in that kept him from yelling. He reins it in quickly, though. "Fifty seven."

"You have to stop," Ingram whispers as the numbers tick higher yet.

John doesn't answer, but he pauses when Harold shifts under him. "You told him to give me as much as I could take," Harold says, and repeats: "This is his _job_."

Ingram looks at John with fury. John returns a blank expression and hits Harold again.

Harold's voice goes quieter as the numbers go higher. When John can't hear Harold anymore, can only feel an exhale of air, he stops. "That's it," he tells Harold. "We're done."

He doesn't give Harold a hand up, instead keeping a watchful eye that Harold doesn't topple over.

Harold doesn't. It's a slow, difficult process, but eventually Harold leverages himself off the rack and to his desk.

"Harold," Ingram says, sounding choked.

When Harold speaks, he sounds mostly like himself. "I'd like to be left alone now."

"But--"

" _I said_ ," Harold says, voice like a cracking whip, "I'd like to be left alone, Mr. Ingram."

After a short hesitation, Ingram leaves. Harold types, sounding slower, stiffer than his usual lightning speed. He hits the delete key a lot. John pretends to focus on his book.

Lunchtime approaches, and Harold makes no sign of emerging from his work. John waits until ten minutes past their usual time, then goes alone.

John eats his own lunch in under ten minutes, then takes a disposable aluminum lunch tray from under one of the counters and spends another ten minutes carefully picking pieces of chicken and vegetables, spooning white rice into the package's remaining section. He brings the makeshift tray to Harold along with a fresh glass of cold water.

"That's very kind, Mr. Reese." Harold's voice is too tired to have a bite to it. "But I'm very particular...." His voice fades off as he peers into the package. "Hm." He takes the knife and fork that John hands him and digs in.

"No skin," John says softly. "No gristle. Carrots and zucchini are okay, but no eggplant or peppers."

Harold's eyes narrow, and he looks up at John. He finishes chewing and swallows before saying, "Very perceptive."

John shrugs. He can't very well say it's what they pay him for: he’s no longer in a line of work where that’s considered a necessary skill.

Once he's done eating, Finch dabs his mouth with a napkin and says, "How are you?"

John contemplates deflecting, but doesn't see the point. "I'm okay."

For a long moment, Harold looks at John like he's code that Harold is examining for flaws. Then Harold sighs. "I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies."

~~

It's twenty past two AM when John is abruptly not okay anymore.

He stares at the blinking numbers on his alarm clock, trying to drive away the last images of the dream, the metallic taste in his mouth.

It doesn't work. If he closes his eyes, he sees Kara smile again, hears her say, "This is the real thing, John. Everyone else who says they're dominating somebody is just playing."

The Afghani diplomat was on his knees beside her, eyes huge with terror. He hadn't made a sound, breathed shallowly. Even so there was a thin red line on his throat where Kara's knife pressed in.

"Just kill him," John had said, irritation masking his own terror, his disgust with himself.

Kara'd laughed. "You're such a service top." Then her face turned serious, and she handed him the knife. "No, John. You do it."

That's where the dream diverged. In reality, John had slit the man's throat and they buried him in a shallow grave. Later that night, Kara and John had sex at their hotel room, smiling at one another like feral animals.

In the dream, John's hand shook, and Kara took the knife back from him. She gutted the diplomat (that was another memory, that mark was a switch) and then put the blade to John's own throat, told him to convince her he loved his job. (That part happened in Paris, not Afghanistan.)

In the red glow of John's alarm clock, his small, clean bedroom seems sinister. John doesn't ache, doesn't feel weak or nauseated. Just very, very lonely.

He gets up, gets dressed, and walks to Harold's office, doesn't question the urge that leads him to curl up in his chair with a book he isn't really reading.

Even in the corridor leading inside, he can tell something's odd. He recognizes the sound of clacking keyboard keys before he opens the door, and makes his last three footsteps a little louder.

Harold doesn't turn around when John enters. His eyes look too large illuminated by the screen; the office is dark and John can see lines of code reflected in Harold's glasses.

Apparently, John's attempts to telegraph his arrival weren't enough. On John's next step, a floorboard creaks and Harold startles visibly. His head jerks up; he yelps and reaches for his neck with a grimace.

John's at his side before he can think better of it, stopping just short of reaching for Harold. "Are you hurt?"

After a short hesitation, Harold says, "Not badly. It'll pass." His mouth twists and he looks away from John. "Although if you'd care to make another offer of a massage, I'd be hard pressed to refuse."

Dry-mouthed, John says, "That's not enough."

That gets Harold to look at him. "Oh?"

"If you want me to do anything to you, you ask," John says, heart beating quicker. "I'll say yes if you do. But you have to ask first."

There's something assessing in Harold's gaze. Then it subsides, and Harold gives a tiny nod. "In that case," Harold says, "I would like your help relaxing. I'll trust your judgement as to how." He bows his head. For once, he manages not to look defiant, doing so: but his mouth firms, a tight line, as though speaking was painful. 

No doubt it was, even assured that Harold would have what he asked for.

The room's darkness is a respite from the burning blue sky in John's dream, softer than the fluorescent lighting under which he'd punished Harold. It's hardly frightening at all to reach out and touch.

The fabric of Harold's jacket is stiff under John's fingers. John tugs at it. "I'd like to take this off."

It takes Harold a second, but then he says, "Please do." His breath hitches on the _please_.

John hangs the jacket carefully. Harold is wearing only a thin t-shirt underneath; a concession to the late hour, perhaps. John can easily feel warmth through the shirt, map muscle and bone underneath it. Choosing where and how to press is instinct. John follows the places that make Harold's breath stutter.

He finds himself thinking of a display he'd seen back in high school, a picture of an owl next to its skull, the misleading padding of feathers around a long and wickedly sharp beak.

Or perhaps the opposite of that. Under the armor of Harold's stiff suits, he is rapidly untensing muscles, both more durable and more vulnerable than John could have imagined from what's visible on the surface.

Incrementally, John lowers his face. He thinks of kissing Harold - perhaps his cheek, even, not his mouth - but that's not right, not yet. Instead, he whispers in Harold's ear, "I'd like to pick you up and put you somewhere more convenient."

There's a minute tensing of Harold's muscles, and John bites his tongue to keep from adding, _I won't hurt you_. If Harold doesn't already know that, being told won't help.

But Harold swallows, and says, "Yes," his voice slightly rougher than before.

John knows what he's doing, his own strength and Harold's body and the layout of Harold's office. He moves back and turns the chair around so that Harold faces him, bends close enough that he could rub his cheek against Harold’s if either of them moved the tiniest bit, and slides his hands under Harold's thighs.

(Harold's _naked_ thighs. John grins into the dark, suddenly bursting with fondness for Harold, who sits at his desk at midnight clad in a t-shirt, a suit jacket, and a pair of boxer shorts.)

When John picks him up, Harold wraps his arms around John's back. Harold is rigid - more so than can be accounted for by the state of Harold's spine, John knows, and John was careful to place his hands below Harold's bruises from the punishment. Their chests are close enough for John to feel Harold's heart beating furiously.

John lets himself say, "I won't drop you," and carries Harold to the bed in the next room.

He settles Harold kneeling on the bed, then helps him into a face-down lying position, pausing to remove Harold's glasses and set them on the nightstand.

"This is a bit more than what I was expecting," Harold murmurs.

In the dark, John smiles. "I don't do things halfway. Or did you mean you'd like me to stop?"

He stays very still until Harold says, "Go on," grinding the words out.

Harold's entire upper body is one big knot. John goes slow. At first he puts hardly any pressure at all, just getting his hands on Harold, getting them acclimated to one another, warming Harold.

In time, by tiny increments, Harold relaxes, his breaths deeper, his shoulders coming down slightly.

"The actual massage would be easier if I could touch skin," John says. "Preferably with some kind of lotion or oil."

Harold doesn't respond to this, but he does say, "Green," very quietly, when John prods him for a color. John rubs gentle circles between Harold's shoulderblades through his shirt, careful of his spine, moving upwards to the base of Harold's neck.

The bed is far from ideal for a massage: Harold can't lie face down, but he can't turn his head aside, either, so John made do by having Harold rest the side of his face against a folded cushion. It gives John a partial view of his face, which means John spots Harold's eyelids fluttering when John sweeps his fingers up Harold's neck.

When John brushes his fingers lightly up Harold's nape, stirring Harold's hair around the spot where spine meets skull, Harold makes a faint noise that John has never heard from him before.

A stray word might disturb this fragile scene John is building, so he doesn't vocalize his sudden sense of triumph, only letting his lips curve, his face safely out of Harold's view.

What he does then is half scalp massage, half caress, running his fingers through Harold's hair, exerting subtle pressure when he feels it might do good. Every so often, when hitting a new patch, Harold will make that noise again, surprised, happy.

John is running his finger just over Harold's hairline when Harold clears his throat and says, "I'd like you to lift my shirt up and touch my back, if you liked that." His face heats up perceptibly under John's fingers.

John can't stop himself from grinning. "I'm delighted," he tells Harold, completely sincere, and pushes up Harold's shirt.

He's expecting the scars; it's the unmarked skin that catches John off-guard, the parts of Harold that are still soft and sensitive under John's questing fingers. Harold trembles when John trails his fingers delicately to one side of Harold's spine, skipping the surgical scars, and he almost undoes all his work relaxing Harold when he presses a soft kiss to the small of Harold's back and Harold yelps.

"Should I not have done that?" John says.

Harold's breathing takes a moment to come back to normal. In a small voice, he says, "Could you do it again?"

John does. This time he lingers, gives Harold time to get used to the different temperature and texture of John's mouth, feeling Harold shiver under him.

"I haven't been touched like this for quite some time," Harold says, "as you might have surmised."

There's still a part of Harold that's holding back, guarded. John half wants to dismantle it, but he's also pretty sure this part is there for a reason. He resumes his massage, giving both of them a few quiet moments.

It's Harold who breaks the silence, and when he does, his voice wobbles. "John. What are you doing?"

John feigns innocence. "Don't you like it?"

"You know I do." Harold's irritation makes John grin. "But what are you trying to accomplish?"

John bites down on several glib replies and gives this thought, still rubbing Harold's back. "They used to call me a service top," he says, eventually, "before I was discharged. Maybe they were right."

Harold's quiet, but John can practically hear the gears whirring in his head. "Implying you were somehow invalid as a Dom," Harold says after a moment, thoughtful.

John shrugs, a futile gesture since Harold can't see him. "I knew a sub who said, you're a Dom if someone submits to you. I don't see how valid or invalid enters into it."

"But is it truly submission if you're only doing what you wanted to do anyway?" Harold sounds somewhat harsh, saying so. "Some would call it topping from the bottom, even."

"Maybe I'm not the best judge," John says. "I just figure submission is a lot of things, and pushing yourself to do difficult things a Dom asks from you is one of them."

"Most people don't find it difficult to receive a massage," Harold snaps.

John smirks. "But you're not most people, are you?" He trails his finger down Harold's side, pleased when Harold doesn't jump. "Besides, I never said receiving the massage was the hard part."

Harold tenses under him. "Alright," he says. "What would the hard part be, then?"

John bends close to Harold, close enough that Harold can feel John's breath on his nape. "The hard part was to ask."

There's a pause, and then Harold exhale, some tension flowing out of him. "I suppose you have a point." Softly, he adds, "Would you kiss the back of my neck?"

John answers by doing, his lips curving against Harold's skin.

He can't carry Harold over some final threshold, can't get him to relax all the way. That's okay. Harold is cautious and prickly, and has very good reasons for being that way.

It makes the little fragments of trust he gives John - his bared skin, his closed trembling eyelids, every hard-earned word that he lets out - all the sweeter.

~~

John comes awake on a carpeted floor, looking up into Harold's face; his own mortification is reflected there, sharpened by the vicious daylight creeping in from the window.

It's very early still. If John hurries, he could make it to his housing unit and back before anyone sees him.

"I'll best shower," Harold says, still staring at John. Then he stays still for a minute or so.

Concern moves John. "Do you need anything?"

Harold's face turns red. "No." He turns abruptly and gets up.

John doesn't go to his housing unit. Instead he goes to Harold's office, uses his own seldom-used company ID to log into the network. By the time Harold is back, armored in a three-piece suit, John has the paperwork printed and ready.

"If you want me to quit," John tells Harold, "just say the word."

Harold blinks several time. "I'm sorry," he says, but John sees gears running furiously in Harold's mind even as he says, "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"I took advantage." John lets out a harsh breath. "You were in a vulnerable position, we hadn't discussed anything in advance--"

Harold's raised eyebrow drives the breath out of John's lungs as neatly as an elbow to the solar plexus. "As a matter of fact," Harold says, "one might argue the power imbalance was exactly the other way around. I could get you fired without much difficulty, and you are prone to post-scene drop in a way I'm not."

There are several things wrong with this sentence, and John attacks the most obvious. "How would you get me fired?"

"Easily." Harold's eyes are steely on him, unflinching. "All I'd have to do is brag somewhere in the board's hearing that I can make you go easy on me."

John snorts. "They'd believe that?"

"More easily than you'd think." The look in Harold's eyes is flinty. "They don't have a high opinion of submissives in general, or of me in particular."

"This," John says, "is really not what most people would mean when they say they can get someone fired."

Harold’s glare is steady. "As you have surmised, Mr. Reese, I am not most people."

After several moments’ silence, Harold adds, “If you wanted to leave and save face about it, please don’t let me stop you.” He takes John’s astonished blink as added insult, apparently, his tone growing bitter. “If we never spoke about this,” his face slightly pinkens, “possibility, it’s not for lack of trying on my part. Last night’s indiscretion notwithstanding, you made your lack of interest perfectly clear.”

John has no idea how to respond to this, and it turns out he doesn’t have to, because the very next moment, the office door slams open.

"I got the rest of your punishment suspended," Ingram tells Harold. Ingram's slightly red-faced and out of breath. Did he run here, to tell Harold this news, or is he still wound up from battling the Board?

Harold's mouth thins very slightly. "I'm very glad to hear that. Did you also get him to countersign the project hour plan?"

Ingram's expression becomes pained. "Harold--"

This gets Harold to look up from his computer. His pale eyes remind John of mirrors, revealing nothing of himself, only Ingram's tiny reflection in Harold's glasses. "The deadline is as tight as I could make it." His voice is neutral and precise. "Every minute we delay will be reflected in it."

"Goddamnit, Harold," Ingram snarls, and punches the wall. "You think I give a damn about the deadline? You know what this is about."

Harold waits for the echo of the hit to die down before saying mildly, "If the deadline mattered so little, why did you let him punish me at all?"

Ingram makes an impatient noise. "Is that why you’re so emotional about this? You’re upset about being disciplined?"

"No." Harold stands up. "I thought I made myself clear. Either I haven't, or you don't care. In either case: no, I will not work on this Machine that you want. It's a terrible idea, and I've told you why, at length."

Ingram's eyes dart to John. He says, "A moment, Mr. Reese?"

"Stay," Harold says, voice low.

John stays, arms crossed.

Ingram doesn't waste his breath on John. He comes to lean on Harold's desk. "Come on, Harold." His voice is low, cajoling. "I thought you wanted to do some good. Change the world."

"Do you, Nathan?" Harold's eyes are still mirror-bright. "I wonder. Or do you merely want to _believe_ you're good?"

Ingram recoils from him. "What are you hinting at?"

Harold's expression turns openly contemptuous. "I'm not hinting at anything. I offered that we help the world by investing in clean power, sustainable energy solutions. You wouldn't do it. You cheat on your sub and get me beaten for refusing to work on your pet project. If you truly wanted to improve the world, I'd suggest you start with your personal life. No, Nathan, what you want is a power trip: if you want joyful adoration, I suggest you go to your sub on the side. I'm sure she fakes it very well."

Ingram's face pales. "I thought we were friends, Harold. All these years...."

Harold looks on him, cold and remorseless. "I'm not getting into the question of how friends ought to behave, at this point. I don't see how it matters one way or another."

When Ingram next speaks, his voice is very low. Controlled. "If you're so tired of me, maybe I should call on the special clause in your contract."

Harold doesn't even blink. "If you want to fire me, go right ahead. I'm a billionaire and I built every product that got people to invest in you; I daresay I'll manage."

Without another word, Ingram turns and leaves. He closes the door carefully, which John finds more concerning than if he'd slammed it off the hinges.

Harold lets out a long breath and slowly collapses into his chair. He seems older suddenly. "I'll go get you tea," John says softly.

Harold shakes his head. Again, he says, "Stay." Again, John does.

"Nathan and I were never involved," Harold says, a few moments later. "You were wondering that, weren't you?" John nods. "It wasn't like that. Much as I wished differently."

"Wished?" John says. His heartbeat picks up a notch.

Harold's mouth twists. "I can forgive a lot of things. Not moral cowardice - nor carelessness."

At the word, John flinches.

Harold looks at him, curiously. "You weren't careless," he says. "It wasn't painful at all; that was quite a pleasant surprise, by the way."

John didn't think a reassurance would make him feel even worse, yet here they are. "That wasn't what I meant." Jesus Christ, what kind of dominants was Harold used to, intimately? "I meant...."

If Harold were really a bird, his feathers would be puffing up with tension. "Yes, Mr. Reese," Harold says, voice tight, "what _did_ you mean?"

John doesn't know how to say this, but he has to say _something_. He can't leave Harold believing John was trying to turn him down gently, for fuck's sake. "I did want you," he says, low. "I still do. And if I decided to ask for something you don't want, what would you do?"

"Say so, to begin with." Harold's mouth has a cynical twist to it.

"And if I insisted?"

Harold stares John down. "I just refused - over a long period of time, at a great cost to myself - an important request from a dom who was my closest friend and partner for over twenty years. Why shouldn't I be able to do the same to you?"

The funniest thing is, John knows the answer to this one. "Because sometimes it's easier to say no to something when you tell yourself you’re protecting someone than it is to admit that you hate it." He raises a hand at Harold's incredulous look. "You asked me why I took this job. Did you want an answer?"

Slowly, Harold nods.

"I was a soldier," John says. "Black ops." The words taste of bile, and John is abruptly sick of euphemisms. "I used to kill people, torture them. Subs, children--" He chokes, struggling not to get lost in an avalanche of memories.

He's startled back to reality by a cold touch to his hand. He blinks and accepts the glass of water that Harold presses on him, taking careful, measured sips.

John only speaks when he's sure he can get through the sentence. "I left the service because someone I cared about needed me. I came too late. And then I couldn't go back, and it took me the longest time to admit to myself that I just couldn't take doing that anymore."

If John listens, he think he might actually hear gears whirring behind Harold's expression. "And I'm your penance?"

John spreads his hands. "It was a job that meant nobody dying. I figured that was as good as I could get, at this point." Harold raises a pointed eyebrow, and John turns a smirk on him. "Or maybe I just wanted to get my hands on someone vulnerable."

That makes Harold's expression waiver. John is just about to apologize - and probably leave before he sees just how much he horrifies Harold - when Harold says, "And once you got your hands on them, what precisely would you want to do?"

Some part of John wants to leer, ask Harold what he thinks John would want. Harold is sitting up straight, though, looking John in the eye, and he makes John want to be as brave as Harold is.

"Touch them," John says. "Make them feel..." Good. Afraid. Aroused. Embarrassed. Pleasure. Pain. "Make them feel."

Spots of color appear high in Harold's cheeks. "There's plenty of subs who'll have you," Harold says. The tremor in his voice is only barely audible. "And gladly."

It's the moment of truth. "There's not a lot of subs I want."

Harold makes an exasperated sound. "If you want someone who'll give you a reaction, I can hardly understand why I, of all subs, make the cut."

That's just unbearable. John gets up and walks closer, getting inside Harold's personal space. "I like your reactions a lot, Harold." Case in point: Harold's hitching breath when John leans right beside him. "But you missed the important part. You're not really vulnerable when I punish you: you know that better than I do. The board wanted to take you down a peg, but they couldn't do that. Even Nathan couldn't."

John goes to his knees. Like this, Harold's eyes are just slightly above his. "Come here," John says softly, and Harold wheels his chair closer, lets John muscle in between his thighs, doesn't edge away when John rests his hands on said thighs. "You're locked up like a safe," John says, still in the same tone. "There's no breaking in without tearing you apart. But you _let_ me in. You opened up for me."

Close enough to kiss, he ducks and whispers in Harold's ear, "Don't you know how precious that is?"

Harold shivers below him, the feeling carried between them like static electricity. "You make a compelling point, Mr. Reese."

"Call me John," he says, still into Harold's ear.

"John." Harold swallows. When he speaks again, to John's disappointment, the words are a good deal less breathy. "Unless you want this to go awry again, we had better discuss our mutual desires - and our individual dislikes."

John gets up, gets himself back in his seat. "Sorry."

Harold blinks at him. His pupils are still wide: John takes some comfort in that. "What are you apologizing for?"

John grimaces. "I know nobody likes this part," he says. "I'm sorry I can't just," he waves his hand around, "figure out what you want and give it to you."

Harold raises his eyebrow again. "Should I apologize, then, for wanting or needing anything beside the obvious?"

"No!" John says, appalled.

Harold spreads his hands: _point made_. John cedes it with a tilt of his head. "Also, I beg to differ. I do enjoy this part." At John's disbelieving look, Harold elaborates. "I may be in the minority, but I like thinking about how people operate. I realize doms dislike being given detailed instructions--"

"I don't," John says, honest. "Give me whatever you've got." 

Harold opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider. "Actually, I think this conversation is best conducted elsewhere. Would you go home with me, John?"

It's not even nine AM yet, on a workday. Harold gives him an expectant look. John can't help his resulting smile. "By all means, Harold." He gets up and offers Harold his hand; Harold takes it, tucking his arm into John's.

~~

Harold's residence is a more luxurious version of John's own on-campus unit. It has a small living room, a kitchenette, and a bedroom with an attached bathroom. 

"If you'll excuse me for a moment," Harold says, ducking into the bedroom. It gives John time to examine the kitchenette, which is mostly barren.

Harold calls him from the bedroom, which is large enough to contain a walk-in closet and a computer desk, Harold's priorities shown in order. "I'll need another moment," Harold says, a little stiff. "I'm sure you can entertain yourself in the meanwhile."

The bedroom door shuts softly behind Harold. John's eyes zero in on one drawer in the bedside table, left slightly open, and the computer, which is logged in and unlocked.

From Harold, who never leaves his work station without signing off, it's practically an engraved invitation.

For a moment, John hesitates, torn; in the end he goes for the drawer first.

There's mostly toys for penetration inside it, dildos of varying size. On a hunch, John looks under the bed, and finds a foam wedge-shaped pillow. He's seized by a sudden, vivid mental image of Harold propped up on the pillow, using the toys on himself.

Once John can breathe again, he continues investigating the drawer. Besides insertables, condoms, and lube, he finds in there a small round vibrator, a Wartenberg pinwheel, and a light leather flogger.

The flogger and the pinwheel go back in the drawer. The insertables, condoms, lube, and vibrator stay out.

John sits next to the computer and clicks away until Harold comes back in.

"Do you want to talk first?" John says. "Or do you want to get started right away?"

Harold takes a moment to decide. John thinks he catches Harold shiver, and struggles to suppress his answering grin. "Prudence dictates we discuss this first," Harold says, "but you are very observant, and there's something to be said for surprise. You've taken very good care of me so far."

That last sentence catches John unprepared, a gut punch. "Get over here," John says, rough. "Stand next to me."

Harold does, coming near enough that John can feel his warmth, smell the subtle aftershave Harold uses. John doesn't stand up to unbutton Harold's pants. "You say I'm observant," John says. "Do you want to know what I observed?"

Under his hands, Harold trembles, but his voice is uninflected when he says, "Please do."

John goes to his knees to take off Harold's shoes. "You pay attention when I'm on my knees," John says. "But it doesn't turn you off or upset you."

"It takes more than a physical position to define control." Harold is standing very straight.

"You'd know," John says, keeping his delight out of his voice. Harold might think it's mockery, at this point. 

Harold lets out a small sigh. "The confidence it suggests is. Very appealing." The last two words sound strained.

"Is it?" John gives up and allows his fondness to show. Harold leans on him to raise each leg in turn, allowing John to remove his shoes and socks. John takes Harold's hand and kisses it, rising and pushing Harold's pants down. He holds Harold around the waist as Harold steps out of them, like they're partners in a dance.

Once Harold is bared from the waist down, John sits back on the desk chair and pats his thigh. "Come here." 

Harold looks vaguely mortified. "Is this a joke?"

"I wouldn't play one on you." John lowers his voice, cajoling. "I want you to sit in my lap and show me what you like."

After another moment of agonizing indecision, Harold complies. He moves quickly, holding on to the desk as he sits down as if he's afraid John would drop him.

John has no intention of letting that happen, but he's willing to give Harold time to learn this from experience. "You've had to be very careful. It must be tiring, to be so on guard all the time."

"It is." Harold sounds wary.

John smooths his hands over Harold's bare thighs, kisses the back of Harold's neck, loving Harold's resulting shiver. "I hope you'll let me take responsibility for your wellbeing, if only for a little while."

"I suppose." Harold takes a breath, and another one. "For a little while." With visibly conscious effort, he relaxes a bit into John's grip.

"So," John says, curling his arm around Harold's waist. "Wanna give me the guided tour?"

Harold's mouth purses, but he doesn't play stupid. He clicks around and hits a folder whose name is a long string of letters and numbers that John would have trouble memorizing.

If John had to describe its contents with a single word, it'd be _varied_.

There's drawn pictures, still photographs, videos, text files and more than a few sound files. Harold opens them by an order that would seem random except for the way Harold's wrist moves, as though he knows the motion sequence by heart.

Had John needed to determine Harold's preferences in partners from this folder, he'd be shit out of luck. The people in the pictures and videos are of various ages, genders, races. 

Hell, John doesn't know that he'd've pegged Harold as a sub, judging by this collection: there's some fairly standard scenarios - John particularly notes a well-muscled dom holding a smallish sub upside down against the wall, the dom eating the sub out with excruciating thoroghness - but there's a also a lot of variance. At least one file has what seems like two doms vying for control, then one pinning the other down and fucking them mercilessly, and one threesome where the two subs seem to actually enjoy one another rather than make a display for the dom.

"Any conclusions?" Harold says, having clicked through one last file. John's curious about the text ones, but he'll ignore those for the time being.

Maybe he'll make Harold read them out to him later. Now there's a thought. "You like penetration," John says, mostly to wind Harold up.

Harold lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. "I wonder what gave you that hint." His eyes sweep the toys on the bed and the file they just closed, which had a sub moaning and blushing while being fucked with a tooth brush’s non-bristly end.

No use in ignoring the one thread all the porn files had in common. "You like people," John says. "Not fantasies. You like it when they look and act like they're real, and you like intimacy."

Harold stiffens. "Doesn't everybody?" 

From the bitterness in his voice, John suspects Harold already knows the answer to this one. "No," he says, just for completeness' sake. "A lot of people like their porn prepackaged. You want something real. You don't let anyone see you, but I think you want to seen."

Harold is not showing signs of loosening up, the opposite. John runs both hands over Harold's thighs, teases at Harold's stomach under his shirt. "You have good reasons not to show them," John says, voice low. "They'll never understand what they're missing anyway."

The ensuing puff of Harold's breath is, John thinks, a tiny bit pleased.

That was probably enough talking. For the moment, John thinks he'll let his body speak for itself. John hugs Harold, curving his shoulders in to cling closely to Harold's body, and kisses Harold's cheek. He keeps petting Harold, taking honest delight in hot, soft skin under his hands, the irregularities of a lived-in human body.

Harold relaxes by slow, almost glacial fragments. He gets there, though: eventually his hips fall subtly open under John's hands, his shoulders untensing as he finally trusts John to take his weight.

It's a very nice weight, substantial and solid in John's lap. John's careful not to thrust up: he's not sure how the left over bruises from their last punishment would react to that kind of move.

There's something delicious about knowing that he _could_ hurt Harold... no, that's not quite right: he loves knowing that he can _keep_ from hurting Harold. That Harold trusted John to come so close, and that John can utilize this closeness to make Harold feel only good things.

Only when Harold begins shifting restlessly in John's lap does John touch Harold's cock. He cups it in his hand, feeling the weight of it, the heat. "You'd like me to touch you intimately now," John says, giddy, wondering if Harold will be cross with his phrasing.

Amazingly, Harold appears to be past sarcasm. He only swallows and says, "Yes," voice just above a whisper.

"I'd very much like to do that," John says, and gives himself free rein to play with Harold's cock.

Play is a good word for what he does. He's not aiming for orgasm just yet. Harold's refractory period needs to be taken into consideration, and he wants to spend as long as possible making Harold feel good before they have to take a break.

For now, he rubs his fingers lightly over the head of Harold's cock, up and down the shaft, runs them over the base. Harold doesn't curse, or twitch. He lies limply in John's grasp, breathing heavily, letting John have his way with him.

It makes John want to go further. He cups Harold's balls briefly, then goes for his hole.

That does make Harold jump: his eyes flutter shut, eyelashes tickling John's cheek. "Oh," Harold says, high and startled. John rubs at his rim, gentle but firm. "Oh," Harold says again, considerably lower.

John grins. "Time to get moving," he tells Harold, getting his arms under Harold and taking him to bed.

Harold allows John to arrange him without commentary, and once he's done, John stands back for a moment and admires the way Harold looks propped up on the wedge pillow, ass in the air.

The bruises on Harold's ass are turning yellow, and looking at them too hard makes John wince. Harold doesn't seem like he minds, though. His eyes are still closed, peaceful, mouth curved upwards just a tiny bit.

If by the grace of God John manages not to screw things up and there is a next time, John wants to tease Harold some day, make him swear and maybe bite: but not until a time when Harold has become accustomed to being pleasured. Not so long as Harold's patience and trust is based in courage more than fact.

For now, John knows what he wants.

The gasp Harold makes at the first touch of John's lips to his entrance is beautiful, and the rising hitch in his breath is even better. It's inspiring. It makes John relentless, and he grabs Harold's ass, squeezes and spreads it so he can get at him better, moaning himself when the muscle there softens and opens for him.

He has to tear himself away before he's quite done, because one thing he wants to do today is get both of them good and filthy.

"So I think," John says, conversational, "that you'd like it if I came over your hole and then licked you clean. What do you say?"

Harold lets out a long, helpless whimper.

John chuckles. "Good. That makes two of us."

He barely has to touch himself to come, spilling all over Harold's pale skin with a stroke. In another moment he's licking Harold, cleaning him and arousing him, delighting in the short whines Harold emits with each breath now.

Once he's lapped off the last of his come, John kisses up Harold's back, pushing Harold's shirt until he reaches the place where scar tissue begins. "Go ahead and come whenever you want, sweetheart," John tells him, low and rough. "Tell me to stop if it gets too much. Otherwise, I won't."

Harold croaks, "That would take... remarkable endurance on your behalf. I'm afraid I'm not easily sated."

John strokes Harold's back. "Like I said: that makes two of us."

He makes Harold come twice before Harold weakly cries out, "Enough." Harold's refractory period isn't as long as John might have suspected, and through it Harold sobs and squirms and keeps taking the toy John is fucking him with. It has its own charm, really, seeing Harold open for more even with his cock soft and dripping.

John licked that clean, too, but he took a moment first to enjoy the picture it made.

Carefully, John turns Harold over, lays him face-up on the bed and puts the pillow back in its place. John unbuttons Harold's shirt, watching Harold's slight smile, his closed eyes.

"Do you want me to--?" Harold stills when John puts a gentle finger over his lips.

A part of John wants to fuck Harold, enjoy the claim he has to Harold's body. But if Harold allows it right now, it might not be because he enjoys John having that claim, but because he thinks he has to, as if John needed to be paid for what they did.

The thought of it makes him soften a bit. "I'm good," John says.

Harold's eyes open a crack. "You could come over my stomach," he suggests, tentative. "Or if you don't like that notion...." he trails off, looking at John's dick which has fully hardened again.

"I like it fine," John says, voice rusty. "And then lick it off you."

Harold shivers. It's a good shiver. "Mm. So you could."

Licking Harold feels good. John's definitely not getting hard again, but that's not why he likes it. It's something to do with the simple pleasure of Harold's hands running through his hair. When John pulls Harold close, he feels the places where Harold's skin is still damp, the way their surfaces cling together, held in place by something more than friction.

~~

John emerges from post-scene bliss to Harold's ringing cellphone.

"I suppose it won't be any better if I put it off, will it," Harold says with a sigh, and picks it up. "Hello? I'm home. Yes, I do realize."

John can't quite make out the words on the other end, but he can tell that it's Ingram, and he's pissed.

"No," Harold says, "and now that I think of it, it's much past time to say this: I'm resigning. Consider this my two weeks' notice. No. No. Nathan, I don't _care_. Do what you want. Goodbye." He hangs up with a decisive press on the botton.

It's weird. John can tell there's a cold, awful feeling hovering over him, waiting for its chance to hit. But right now, Harold is close and warm and the feeling can't quite penetrate.

"This is inconvenient," Harold says with a sigh. "I hate packing, and letting others handle my things is even worse. Still, I suppose I'll manage."

"I could help," John says before he thinks better of it.

Harold's gaze focuses on him like lazer beams. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to handle your professional life," he says slowly, "but my leaving IFT would, by necessity, either change your position there drastically or terminate it altogether."

With a dry mouth, John says, "Presume away." He could be Harold's bodyguard, he supposes. Or his personal trainer.

The corner of Harold's mouth crooks up. "I don't know yet what my next project will be," he says, "but I can assure you it won't involve killing people, and I seem to be minus one business partner."

The cold feeling dissipates so fast it leaves John dizzy. "I'm surprised you're not soured on doms in your professional life."

"Only ones who don't listen to me." Harold grimaces. "Which, I agree, excludes a great majority of this group, but not its entirety."

There's an odd sound, and John takes a moment to realize it's him, laughing.

"John?" Harold seems concerned. "What is it?"

John shakes his head. Harold has enough to deal with, at the moment, without handling John's sudden realization that everyone who's ever called him a service top was exactly right. "Never mind. I'm good with listening to you."

Harold's eyes sharpen. "I seem to remember," he says, "that you thought one could be a dom if somebody submitted to one. I didn't correct you at the time, but I happen to disagree with this assessment."

John's shoulders stiffen. "Yeah?"

"Some years ago," Harold says, enunciating carefully. "I made the acquaintance of a very beautiful switch. She took me for a dom, and I never told her otherwise."

John holds himself very still.

"She was very broadminded, and I don't doubt she would have been happy with me as I am. But I thought..." Harold's mouth thins. "I thought, perhaps, it would be easier to be a dom. I've certainly been told I'm bossy enough for the part, and my preferences aligned with hers very well. It was perfect in all but name."

John takes Harold's hand and waits for Harold's breathing to even again.

"I resented it," Harold says, finally. "And resented the resenting, and pretended everything was fine until there was nothing but resentment left. I couldn't even bring myself to explain, after I lied to her for so long." He darts a glance at John's face. "I'm not a good person, John."

If Harold looked slightly less upset, John would probably have laughed. As it is, he squeezes Harold's hand and says, "I'm definitely not one to judge."

For a moment it seems like Harold wants to argue. Then he deflates. "That's not what I meant to discuss, at any rate. What I meant to say is - I'm a submissive because it is how I am made. Despite every downside associated with the role. Pretending otherwise would eat me from the inside." In John's grasp, Harold's hands twitch and stutter. "I can't tell you what dominance is, or even that you are a dominant. I can't give you that." He sounds anguished.

John hugs him without thinking, keeps his arms tight around Harold for a long few minutes.

"If you want," Harold says, "I'm glad to discuss the issue with you. I've given considerable thought to questions of role and navigating them. But primarily, the question to ask yourself is: are you happy identifying as you are?"

John gives an unwilling bark of laughter. "Being happy's hard," he says. "I don't know how identity would change that."

"You'd be surprised," Harold says, with a wry smile. "Will it satisfy you to hear that you're an extraordinarily good partner?"

John hugs him again, nods into his chest. “If you’re happy being with a service top,” John says, “I guess I can’t complain.”

“What is wrong with being a service top?" Harold sounds so entertainingly cross that John can’t resist hugging him yet another time. “I was happy to submit to you," Harold says. "I'll be happy to do so again. If this makes you feel confirmed in your role as a dominant, and you want to feel confirmed in this role, I support this wholeheartedly."

The entire statement, the way Harold carefully constructed it, is just so _Harold_ that John has to kiss him. 

A thought strikes John. "Do you do negotiation talks the same way? Like you're running through an algorithm?"

Despite looking dazed from kissing, Harold raises an eyebrow at John. "This _was_ a negotiation talk, in a way."

John squeezes him, grinning. "You're fun," he informs Harold. "And cute."

"You have very odd taste," Harold replies. "But I suppose I can live with it."

**Author's Note:**

> Note on consent: this fic starts out with John giving Harold nonsexual, nonconsensual physical punishment, which is an aspect of systematic oppression present in this world. Neither of them enjoys this, but both are resigned to it as a fact of life.
> 
> Towards the end of the fic, John develops a romantic, sexual and kinky interest in Harold, which is reciprocated. John is strongly concerned for Harold's ability to freely consent to this, but they work things out anyway. (Don't try this at your workplace, anyone!)
> 
> Another note/disclaimer: I don't think there's actually anything wrong with being particular as a submissive. People get to have boundaries. It's okay to only want to do what you want. If "topping from the bottom" is a thing, it's not a bad thing IMO. Submission and dominance are what people make of it and I think it's wrong to question people identifying as such based on their practices.


End file.
